The two little girls, Lucie Du Bois and Annette Le Brun, were great friends, as might be surmised since they were next door neighbors. Lucie, her father and mother, her grandfather, Paulette, their maid and her son Jean, occupied a comfortable, square house whose red-tiled roof could be seen when winter stripped the leaves from the trees, but which in summer was almost hidden by green. A white stucco wall separated the garden from that of the Le Bruns, but the wall was not an impassable barrier, for the two girls, by means of a ladder, or, when the ladder was lacking, by means of overhanging branches, were able to climb back and forth. Dark-haired, brown-eyed Annette lived with her grandparents. She was a bright, ardent little soul, adoring her best friend, Lucie, who excelled her in imagination and sometimes surprised her by her vivid way of telling things. Lucie, too, had dark eyes like her father’s, but her hair was a soft golden brown like her mother’s. She was about fourteen, Annette a year older. While the latter had legends of the saints at her tongue’s end, Lucie had far wider information concerning more modern tales. She never tired of hearing from her mother stories of the Indians and of her pioneer forefathers. These stories she would retell to Annette, who listened wide-eyed. Moreover there was a small collection of her mother’s girlhood books which Lucie was permitted to have and from which she gained a knowledge not only of her mother’s native tongue, but of things American. Therefore to Annette she was a very superior person whose companionship she greatly enjoyed, and preferred to that of any other girl she knew. The big factory with the tall chimney over to the west belonged to the Du Boises; that on the other side of the town to the Le Bruns. Grandfather Du Bois had retired from active business, but still made a daily visit to the rooms where clattering machines whizzed and whirled all day long. He liked to talk over affairs with his son who had taken his place in the business. Monsieur Le Brun still remained head of his firm, having no son to succeed him, though he often spoke of the day when Annette should marry and a _petit fils_ should relieve him of his cares. The task of shelling the peas was far from being a disagreeable one, for while their fingers split the fresh pods and raked the pale green globes from them, the two girls chattered incessantly and at last began the subject which they often discussed but never failed to enjoy. This time it was Annette who began by asking: “Have you really made up your mind which saint you prefer?” “For me it is Saint Elizabeth of Hungary or Saint Ursula,” replied Lucie. “I adore that story of the loaves of bread turned into roses, and I also like Saint Ursula for she was of Brittany. It must have been wonderful to see her leading her eleven thousand virgins.”